


Judas Kiss

by nimrodcracker



Series: a blinding flash [17]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Gen, Just your daily dose of raider-level entertainment, Sugar Bombs, With lots of dead bodies, kneecapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-10-30 05:31:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10870131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimrodcracker/pseuds/nimrodcracker
Summary: Months after the Sole Survivor assumes the title of Overboss over the Nuka-World gangs, another upstart launches a coup.Or did they?





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

> _September 2288_
> 
> _Old North Church Basement, Boston_

"Acadia's accepting packages now. Whatever Wanderer did, it smoothed over the tensions left by DiMA's execution. Apparently DiMA and some of his synths weren't fans of ours."

Desdemona doesn't need to hear them speak to know that this runner is another fresh-faced tourist. They lack the bleariness that colours the expressions of the Switchboard survivors; of stress lines set into skin and empty looks meant to be anything but reassuring. Lucky them. And not just because they're one of the privileged few to walk inside Railroad HQ, even now.

The tourist blithely continues, hand gripping the rim of the central round table. "Regardless, Far Harbour is secure. The Harbourmen are setting up settlements all over the island, and they aren't too bothered about mainlanders arriving as they used to. Not since the Children of Atom were wiped off the map."

Desdemona sighs. _Was that a necessary move?_ she wonders, but maybe that's a question without an answer.

"Easy for the Acadians to say," Carrington grumbles, ever the grouch. Today, his normally combed-down hair sticks out in places, the only signs of distress the tightly-wound man will _ever_ let slip. "They weren't the ones avoiding the Institute and the Brotherhood every waking moment."

Desdemona makes a note to remind Carrington about his sleeping habits - or lack thereof. Her own, too, she quietly adds. "So that's settled. Remember to run the numbers with P.A.M. before you leave." Desdemona takes a long drag of her cigarette, relishing the kick of nicotine, before turning to Carrington. "What were you saying about the Commonwealth situation?"

"We need more heavies." Pencil in hand, Carrington taps, taps, taps it on the clipboard on the table like a grounding rhythm - but for what? "Dead drop holotapes have been reporting on new group of raiders encroaching into their districts."

"So send Wanderer. Now's not the time for expansion, nor do we have an abundance of applicants. But I'm unopposed to the latter, though."

"Dez, no." Deacon somehow and suddenly appears beside her at the table (thankfully dressed in a shirt and matching pants) but Desdemona's too desensitised to his antics that she doesn't bat an eyelid. "Wanderer isn't our heavy anymore."

Miffed, she favours Deacon with arched brows. Will he ever not wear his tinted sunglasses? It still unnerves her that she can't look Deacon straight in the eyes. "Are you telling me Wanderer's been compromised? She's the last person I would expect to-" Desdemona's breath catches. "Is she dead?"

_Not her, please. Not after Glory._

"On the _contrary_." Carrington interrupts with a knock on his clipboard with his pencil. "In fact, she's the new Over-"

" _She's here._ " Deacon hisses through gritted teeth, wary; as if any louder will summon hell upon them again like at the Switchboard.

Desdemona freezes at that, unable to suppress the little thrill of fear down her spine, pinching her lit cigarette even more as she notes Deacon's hand moving to scratch his lower back; a nonchalant reach for the pipe revolver stuffed in the waistband of his pants.

Silence descends upon HQ. Desdemona can't help but dart her eyes to the exits, as if synths will burst through in a hail of laserfire - but the Institute's bombed to atoms. So she tuns to where Deacon's nodded to and so does Carrington, but it's the doctor who reacts first.

"Wanderer," Carrington enunciates with a frown. He still taps his pencil, but on his labcoat this time. And that isn't what Carrington does before he chastises people.

He's nervous.

Stepping towards them with the widest grin and whitest teeth in the Commonwealth is Adrián, glasses strangely lopsided on her nose. "Morning. And thank _you_ all for being here in one place. It makes what I'm about to do so much easier."

If Desdemona was a betting woman, she'd bet that Adrián was flustered today. By what, Desdemona hadn't the brain space nor energy to deduce.

Adrián reaches for her satchel just as no less than ten guns are pointed at her.

The pink-haired woman smirks, unfazed by the thought of being riddled with bullets. "Come on, I won't kill anyone," she jokes. "We went through rough times together. And _I_ happened to save all your asses. Who knows what would've happened to you fighters had I not come along the way I had."

"That isn't what we're worried about." Desdemona takes a puff of her cigarette; a short one this time, but still enough of a kick. It's to still her galloping pulse - and only then, she trusts herself to speak. "We're more interested about your...recent affiliations."

Deacon is still. _Everyone_ is still, because they're all a wrong move away from a bloodbath. And Desdemona isn't naive enough not to think Wanderer won't start tossing grenades in here. For Christ's sake, this was the woman who sharpened a spoon into a knife while trussed up and left ten raiders bleeding out all over the floor, the day raiders descended on a Jamaica Plain occupied with building a teleporter to the Institute.

How a psychopathic killer fell into the ranks of the Railroad, Desdemona had yet to figure out.

Adrián scoffs. "Just say it. You want to know if the new Overboss is planning to raze the Commonwealth to the ground. Hell, everyone's asking me that these days. And this time, I'm too lazy to think of an answer." Adrián finally pulls her hand out of her bag, together with a filled manila folder, which she slowly extends towards the three at the table. "Feel free to hold me at gunpoint if it eases your nerves, because you won't shoot me, and I'll blow everyone up before you do. But go through the file, and you'll have my answer."

They all do. And the first thing Desdemona has to say about it is, " _Jesus._ "

In fact, that's the only thing they can say before chaos engulfs the basement.

* * *

 

 

> _September 2288_
> 
> _Sanctuary, Concord_

It's five minutes till two in the morning.

The rain falls in sheets. It's another normal Commonwealth night, brutally cold and dreary where the moon is smothered under clouds and ground a bog-like mess, where every step taken sucks them in at worst, and stains their boots at best.

At least there's no fog, Preston tells himself, while wiping off the moisture on the metal of his musket with a now-moist rag. When that rolls in, visibility drops, guard duty becomes a mess for anyone manning the posts, and his anxiety spikes. Because if something goes wrong - his watch or no - that soul-crushing guilt will cloud his moods like _those_ days again and man, ain't that something he wishes had stayed in the past.

Preston sighs. There he goes again with his feelings. Everyone reassures him that not everything is his fault, but sometimes, it _is_. The General going rogue is. (And he should've known. Should've stopped her before she became... _this_ ).

He reaches across the table and cranks up the volume of the radio. The rain's louder, but Radio Freedom's classics are soothing. Distracting.

It's five minutes till three in the morning.

The rain's quietened down to a peaceful drizzle, and Preston finally steps out from the house he's been sheltering in. Just like those days hiding out in Concord, but without the threat of raiders and death knocking on their door. Sanctuary thrives because of _her_ , but now, it's a comfort that's lost its warmth.

Preston sighs. He knows he isn't the only one who's taken news of Adrián turning raider badly. Yet, he's the one working himself to exhaustion. Taking on extra guard shifts, going out on patrols. It's his way of coping with the grief. And of all people, it's Cait who understands that immediately. At least, he hopes she has. It's her wordless stares and surprising offers to watch his back that keeps him going. One day at a time. Foot by foot.

He thinks he'll be okay, eventually. If only because the Minutemen need him, without their General to lead them.

The wind picks up when he's standing tall at a guard post. His jacket and gloves stop the Commonwealth chill from creeping under his skin, but even his muffler pulled up to his nose can't stop the waft of something sweet from floating over.

Preston raises his musket in the time it takes to recognise it. Which is, a blink of an eye.

"Who goes there?" he calls out to the trees. Sparse woodlands pepper the Commonwealth, but night meshes the trees into an terrifying void. Preston isn't afraid of the dark; it's the things that _hide_ in the dark that terrify him.

Only the swaying of branches and leaves answer him. (He might've been imagining things thanks to his fatigue, but like anything that Vault-Tec created, that smell is far from natural).

He tries again. "I'm warning you. Step out of the treeline, or I'll shoot."

"I knew it'd be the Sugar Bombs." A silhouette steps out into the meagre light of the perimeter with head bowed, the familiar slouch hat masking the grimy eyeglasses and feral smirk that _had_ to be plastered on her face. Both her hands are raised, palms out and empty; Preston spots her silenced pistols jammed into their leg holsters. "Nothing else would give me away that quickly."

She glances up, looking Preston straight in the eye. Her smirk widens; it's devilish now - but it always has. "I don't understand why you haven't shot me. Don't tell me your fingers are broken."

"Because I'm not like you, _Overboss_ ," Preston snipes back, and to her credit, Adrián winces at the nickname. _Good._ It means that his opinion of her still matters to her.

"I didn't know you had a vicious bone under that good-boy exterior, Garvey. I wonder what _else_ you're hiding."

Preston aims his musket with trembling arms not because of fatigue, but because of the searing betrayal he can't shake off. He hates it that she'll always get a rise out of him, back then and even now. Despite his best efforts, she still exerts a hold on him. How easy it'll be to vapourise her like how he had for the Gunners at Quincy; a simple flick to fire his musket and end the next big threat to the Commonwealth. "Tell me why I shouldn't just shoot you right there, right now."

But he isn't a monster. He won't murder a weaponless person. He's better than that.

He's a Minuteman.

"You're still alive. I could've crept up behind you and snapped your neck if I wanted to."

Cockiness is what Preston hears, but her candour makes him recoil, just slightly. It's not an empty threat: this is the woman who used to murder people because someone told her to - and man, does she do it frighteningly well.

All the while, Adrián hasn't moved from her spot nor dropped her hands to her sides. Preston notes the gunk spotting her glasses and boots, the laboured breathing she tries to rein in. (Is that _blood_ on her Minuteman jacket?). Something tells him to trust her, but he knows the extent of manipulation she's capable of. He's _seen_ her at her devious and amoral best.

If this is another deception, Sanctuary will be the next Quincy. And Preston isn't sure he'll survive the aftermath.

Adrián sees the rigid set of Preston's posture and sighs. "I can explain."

This time, her voice is plain. And her expression more open than Preston's accustomed to seeing; the tell-tale hunger to her movements missing. If he's being honest with himself, it's like Adrián's fleeing from something out to get her. Come to think of it, since when was Adrián this twitchy?

Preston tightens his grip on the trigger.

But he's not the kind of person to take chances.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the Operators.

>   _December 2288_
> 
> _The Parlor, Nuka-Town_

_she's coming for you_ is what Lizzie Wyath writes on a scrap of paper, handwriting still impeccable even if it's spotted crimson in places clutched in her cold, stiff hands.

It's Mags who finds her soaking in a puddle of her blood in her lab, the end to the trail of Operator bodies littering the Parlour. Lizzie's dead from a gaping wound in her torso, just below her chest plate and the metal's punched clean through - buckshot, the _bastards_. Mags doesn't beeline to cradle Lizzie in her arms and hold her tight; she stands at the door stiff and seething, and she takes in the whole scene with discerning eyes to keep the grief and nausea from the stench quashed down below. She needs to focus.

"William!" Mags calls out, unholstering and cocking her pistol just in case. With a breath, she takes tentative steps into the room with pistol at the ready, wading through the swamp of cans and tools and the general mess strewn on the floor with swipes of her booted feet. Mags searches for clues; mistakes of the murderers who did this because she's already decided how exactly they're going to suffer for doing this to the Operators. To _her_. Because this is personal.

Already, her mind whirls with the possibilities of _who_ , and she thinks it's a certain _she_. Who is fascinated by knives. No one else has the spine to strike at the Operators so surgically, so...

When his footsteps sound behind her, Mags finds herself at a spot above Lizzie's head.

" _Lizzie._ " William's voice is choked-up. "God. Who did this to her?"

"You know who it is, William." Mags stoops to pick out a 0.44 round off the floor. She holds the still-warm bullet casing under the light, mentally cursing how her hands are shaking. "You _fucking_ know who ordered this slaughter."

"No witnesses, or kill the witnesses." William's gaze hardens. " _Nisha_."

Mags knows someone else might've planted the rounds. Someone who wants to tip the balance of power in Nuka-Town to stage a power grab and boot out the existing gangs. But the outside gangs wouldn't _dare_ execute this stunt because they're not Nuka-World raiders. People speak of the Operators and Disciples in hushed breaths. Therefore, the threat must've come from within. And who else adopts such a modus operandi?

She's Mags Black. Of course she has this worked out. That's why she's boss.

"Mags." She feels a comforting hand on a shoulder, and she relaxes somewhat. She hasn't realised how tight her posture has been - which is on the verge of snapping. " _Breathe_."

"Of course they'd turn on us." Mags crystallises her grief to chilling, calculating resolve. It's what Mags has always done. What she _only_ knows. "I knew their bloodlust couldn't be sated. Apparently even the Commonwealth wasn't big enough a sandbox for those savages."

"We'll give them what they deserve," William replies, equally vicious, and that's that.

Mags turns on a feeling, an infuriatingly irrational one - sibling instinct, William's been telling her - and she sees the wetness on William's cheeks. Not in trails, but splotches that's been smeared with the back of a hand.

Mags doesn't do it often, but she gathers her brother in a one-armed hug for a brief moment before letting go.

"Bill, you still have me." Mags squeezes his hand. "And curse me if I were to abandon you after all that's happened."

Noises ring out from the hallway; scattered curses amongst the gasps, the heavy thud of a body crashing to the floor in grief. Their Operator rearguard has arrived.

_Can they be trusted?_

William blinks away fresh tears before nodding furiously. "I know, sis. You've never let us down. Never left us. You'll make this work."

They're the Black siblings, criminals and exiles from Diamond City. Family and town had left them to die, but they rose again as a raider gang. So many opportunities to roll over for death but like stubborn shitheads, they stuck it out.

Lizzie didn't die for them both to allow the Disciples to gut them like mirelurks. Nisha will _pay_.

"Can you get the Overboss? Take her to our usual place overseeing the lake?" Mags asks, apologetic, because William clearly isn't handling Lizzie's death as well as her, the way his grief weighs down his posture. He isn't fit for any tasks right now, but there's no choice.

"I will," William answers while unsligning his rifle. He checks his gun from end to end with a cursory glance, more habit than actual desire to ensure it works. "See you there."

William turns to leave, but Mags grabs his arm to whisper in his ear. "Do it alone. I don't know who we can trust right now."

The looks they exchange are sober. Mags is fully aware that this job might end sideways and get them killed. If so, she- she doesn't want to think about it.

"You read my mind." William nods once more in acknowledgement, and he walks out. This time, with his jaw set and grip on his rifle tight.

Mags feels dread in her belly watching him exit the room, but her thoughts don't linger on that. Instead, she finds something to drape over Lizzie - and five opened drawers later, she gingerly pulls out her adopted sister's labcoat. It's Lizzie's favourite, the one with letters of her name lovingly hand-stitched above the chest pocket, and chemical splotches on the collar and sleeves. And it'll never be worn again.

Once Lizzie's lying on her bed and under her labcoat, Mags strides out to the rest of the Operators in the main hall; her chest heavier with every step. Along the way, she checks her hair with her hands, patting and curling the strands to make sure it doesn't betray the tension that wrings out her insides.

Her hands do; fingers drumming on her biceps when she folds her arms across her chestplate, feeling the sting of her sore shoulder. But no one notices. Because Lizzie's dead and William's away.

Mags stands tall on the stage by the microphone while what's left of her gang look up to her with fury in their eyes, murder in their thoughts. She favours them all with a piercing look and sends them off with six words; each one clipped and curt and venomous.

"Kill every last of the Disciples."

Mags is personally squicked by the messiness of knives, but she'll enjoy sticking one into Nisha's eyes.

* * *

William Black often contemplates about how the days will turn out.

Under Colter, it was boredom. Absolute, perpetual boredom. Because it was the same shit of running jobs week in, week out, interspersed with barbaric and sometimes-entertaining episodes of wastelanders running through the Gauntlet that getting _out_ of Nuka-Town for scavenging runs become the highlight of his weeks.

When the new Overboss drilled holes into Colter's forehead with her silenced pistol in the ring, boredom was tossed out of the metaphorical window. Within weeks, she cleared the parks. Within a month, she raised an Operator flag in the Commonwealth. And maybe, within a year, they'll claim the Commonwealth as theirs.

William Black thinks anyone who moves against someone like that is begging for a gruesome way to die; hell, he's seen what she did to that two-faced Mason. Yet here they are, dealing with the Disciples barging leagues out of line when the Overboss had said -viscerally clearly - that any betrayal against any Nuka-World gang was akin to personally betraying her.

That's a memory stuck in William's head, for that was what the Overboss said to them before strangling Mason dead with her piano wire on the rooftop of the power plant. _Before_ she saw fit to drop his dead body in a vat of molten iron.

William's hit by a sudden wave of danger and he ducks - just in time - into the doorway of a building, avoiding the spray of bullets shredding the ground he stood on mere seconds ago. Panting, he darts through the dilapidated kitchen and out into another alleyway, taking care to hug the walls and keep his head down.

It's a long ways yet till Fizztop Grille, and people are _already_ trying to kill him.

He misses the Disciple standing by the door who starts firing the moment he ducks into the third house.

"Great," he mumbles, shots thudding against the upturned table he hides behind. Apparently, the Disciple he's run into has _friends_. "How am I supposed to take down four of those savages again?"

He stares out the window, at the sunlight streaming in, at the buildings outside in desperation. When an idea strikes him; he smirks.

William pops off a few shots with his rifle to keep the brutes out of the kitchen before taking cover again. Then, he unhooks the grenade from his belt, pulls off the safety pin with a thumb and with a mental _please_ he flings it over.

It happens quickly: frenzied yells of _grenade_ ring out, but the house rocks from an explosion a heartbeat later.

The dust and ash barely settle when William gets to his feet with laughter on his lips, languidly clutching his rifle one-handed. Whoever knew it could feel _that_ satisfying to give it to those faceless thugs, now lying face down and strewn in bloody pieces across the living room floor. The more of 'em he takes down, the higher the odds of actually reaching the Overboss - and with her around, the Disciples are done for.

There's the sensation of being watched; pinpricks on skin, so William spins on his heel.

The last thing William sees before his world blacks out is an Operator sniper with shades and a pompadour scoping him from the window of the opposite building.

 _bang_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the Disciples.

> _December 2288_
> 
> _Fizztop Mountain, Nuka-Town_

_She's coming for you._ is what Savoy writes on a scrap of paper before Nisha finds him bleeding out with 7.62mm-sized holes riddling his torso and head; flesh shredded open like a potato. Gruesome work like this is what she appreciates, but this isn't at the hand of a Disciple. This _is_ a Disciple. This is _Savoy_.

That's why she seethes. Paper in hand, she rips it to ribbons before chucking it into the roaring fire inside a barrel that burns equally as hot as the one inside her. She will find her. She will find the one person that could've sanctioned this and she will lop off her body parts starting from her fingers and toes and she'll feed them to her bloody and _raw_. Even if it isn't her, she and her brother has it a long time coming.

Blood permeates the whole of Fizztop Mountain, soaking the ground and walls and very _air_ that Nisha breathes, but this sweetish stench is what sustains her. She's passed countless corpses of slain Disciples from her loft till the entrance, and she's swiped enough blood from them to paint grisly stripes of crimson all over her outift: on her sleeves and something and skin. Her hand hovers on her mask - she's always found the wings on the sides pretentious but Savoy insisted she needed a mark of status - and she rips it off her face and tosses it to a side, replacing it with a nondescript cowl and mask of black cloth favoured by Disciple initiates.

When Nisha pushes open the double doors of her entrance, she does it with an unshakeable sense of direction, as if it's been implanted directly in her brain. She will _avenge_ them. But first, there's someone she needs to find; a face unseen among the corpses.

It's bright out when she slinks from cover to cover, chasing the shadows as if light will scald her skin. She hates the light. She hates the way it dispels the dark from their faces, forces them to be truthful because in light there's nowhere to hide.

And it's in these dark corners where people like her dwell. People who hide their faces behind a veil to fuel the masquerade of fear because even in death, their victims are denied the fleeting comfort of seeing a human face.

Nisha slips past far more Operators than she meets Disciples, the former strutting about with their slicked hair and cheesy bowties at a pathetic attempt to act respectable. Her hands itch towards her knives the moment she catches a whiff of their pungent cologne, but the good sense to find Dixie wins out - in all instances.

She doesn't feel as vulnerable and a heckload more tense until she's darting about in an alley, flanked on both sides with buildings - prime spots for a sniper to perch.

" _Nisha_!"

Nisha pokes her head above the dumpster she hides behind, only for her to sigh in relief. She motions at the other woman to stay inside the house, by the doorway, but Dixie meets her halfway.

For some reason, Nisha's heart starts thudding like a jackhammer against her ribs.

"Nish, I'm _so_ glad you're safe!" Dixie flings herself at Nisha to hug, and the Disciple boss wraps both arms tightly around the smaller woman. "I thought you died! Fizztop's a mess. Like a real, bloody mess."

Dixie annoys the hell out of her sometimes, but today, Nisha smiles instead. She pulls back, but rests her hands on Dixie's arms. "I saw, Dixie. And I painted my armour with their blood."

" _Sweet_. Would'a paid to see that, Boss."

Nisha realises she's the only one wearing a mask between them: Dixie's face is uncovered, the scarf wrapped around her neck. That flouts the first unspoken rule of their gang: to be seen is to be weak. Their ability to terrorise resides in their anonymity. And Dixie religiously adheres to their laws, if only to please her.

Something's wrong. Something's terribly wrong.

"Nisha." Dixie utters in a whisper. That's when Dixie's grip tightens to a vice, her subordinate pulling Nisha back to the shadows lining the walls. "You need to hide. _Now_. I can't see all of them but they're shooting everyone."

Nisha clenches her fists. "Of course those cap-faced bastards would turn on us," she growls. "She'll sell anyone to turn a profit."

Dixie whirls to face her, eyes wide and slowly shaking her head. " _What?_ No, it's n-"

_bang_.

* * *

Nisha's heart stops.

It's been dead the moment Sledge stormed her settlement and sprayed lead at anything that moved; it's been dead the moment she held knives instead of a hoe, killing instead of growing.

Nisha's heart still stops.

Because even dead hearts are still hearts, and it's Dixie's blood that soaks her hands.

" _Dixie_." Nisha watches in horror as blood blooms across the cloth swaddled around Dixie's neck. She presses a palm on the source; the skin between the shoulder and neck. "No. _No_." Already, her fingers are already sticky with blood, the liquid freely flowing through the gaps between her fingers. "Don't you fucking _dare_ die on me."

But she's powerless to the weight of Dixie's body bucking and folding beneath her, dragging Nisha down along with her to the soft earth floor; Dixie's hands fisted in the cloth of Nisha's chestplate, unwilling to let go.

The Disciple boss jerks her head up, searching, searching for the rifle that fired that fatal shot - she's _trembling_ from the fury bubbling over inside her - and the glint of a scope makes her squint at the harsh reflection, but she _knows._ She now knows who she'll play with in her own sweet time.

And in no time, the shooter disappears; all Nisha sees now are deserted rooftops. She wants to snarl and scream but all that comes is a strangled whimper; those that matter to her are being taken away, person by person, and all she has now is to hold them as they wheeze out their last breaths.

Dixie wrests Nisha back to the present, by pulling off the cloth masking Nisha's face with scrabbling, feeble hands - and Nisha lets her. Like she always has, for everything else. For her adopted daughter.

Dixie's hand is cold on Nisha's cheek, but her expression is warm, reverent; enough for a lump to rise in Nisha's throat, despite the blood dribbling down from Dixie's lips. "You're as gorgeous as I always imagined, Nisha. Glad your face is the last thing I see."

A last burble, before Dixie weighs like a sack of bricks in her lap.

Nisha's stunned for a split-second, confused - _in denial_ \- when shaking Dixie or slapping Dixie's cheeks doesn't trigger a response, any response. Even after she's carried the lady into the house and up the stairs to the bedroom, Dixie doesn't stir.

Finally, Nisha sinks to a crouch by Dixie's bedside with a ragged gasp, one hand on Dixie's arm and another one covering her mouth. A tear trickles down her cheek, searing in that moment. She lets her grief swallow her; all ten years of it, for all she's loved and lost. And it's finally come to this: she's alone again.

Nothing terrifies her more.

Nothing infuriates her more.

Nisha pulls Dixie's knives out from their thigh sheaths and hefts them, testing their balance and finding that they move just like her own. So she leaves - but indecision snags her at the top of the stairs.

She ends up snipping a lock of Dixie's hair and twisting it around the handle of one of her knives.

* * *

Weeks ago, a certain brick wall of a Fizztop building wore a logo of the Pack painted on its surface. That was when Mason rebelled against the other two gangs, the bull-headed _idiot_. So no one batted an eyelid when the Overboss ordered a kill order on those savages, and the Amphitheatre stank of blood for a whole week after.

Now, the Operator logo joins it, painted white - but with a wet, dripping cross over it.

Of blood.


	4. Chapter 4

 

>   _November 2288_
> 
> _Nuka-Town Market, Nuka-World_

Mackenzie always found something shifty about the new Overboss.

First, she wasn't as heedlessly cruel like the previous one. Mackenzie remembers the day Colter shot Aaron in the leg just for being a prissy smart mouth about being slaves- no, _employees_ of the raiders. She sure as hell remembers the time she joked with the new Overboss too, only for the lady to _laugh_ along. No kneecaps were shattered. She didn't have to mop up the blood off the floor, or help Aaron do it.

Mackenzie remembers not being able to concentrate for the rest of the day, because the Overboss' chilling laughter wouldn't stop echoing in her ears.

Sure, the woman might be a nutcase like Dixie, wit as sharp as the raider's knives, but Mackenzie's lived around enough of these brutes to know something else drives the new Overboss. That something makes Mackenzie feel - absurd as it sounds - _safe_.

Second, Mackenzie doesn't miss how she's seen a hell lot of unfamiliar faces around town ever since Nuka-World's change in management. Chip tells her they're probably fresh blood of the gangs, but she isn't sure she's convinced by his answer. Either they're plucking fresh-faced farmhands off settlements, or gang recruitment standards are dropping faster than dung from a diseased brahmin.

And she realises too late one of _those_ people heading straight for her.

Heart racing, Mackenzie tries to sidestep the burly Disciple. But she's too late. She crashes into their armoured shoulder and she thinks _not_ dying will be no less than a miracle.

"Oh, Lord. I'm s-" She doesn't finish it because she's grabbed by the collar and slammed against a nearby brick wall hard enough for her teeth to chatter.

Mackenzie wants to scream but there's an arm pressed against her neck. She knows this is it. The raider will smear her brains on the wall in broad daylight because they can and she can't even see their face because it's behind a metal mask and they raise their hand to-

Slip a piece of paper into her shirt pocket.

"Be discreet," they whisper; mask mere hairsbreadths from Mackenzie's face, breath ghosting on her cheeks. It leaves Mackenzie sucking in a breath in panic. "And I'm sorry."

Mackenzie barely strings together the impulse to reply before she doubles over from a knee to her abdomen. It hurts even less to land on her ass. Propped up on both hands, she rides out the pain with a whimper as she watches the raider leave.

She remains disoriented the whole day. If anyone notices, or cares enough to voice their worries in an undertone, she brushes them off with a smile. No one saw what happened, because it happened in a side alley of the market. That's where everything bad happens - and common slaves like 'em can't say anything.

It's only after she's locked her room door (she checks it twice, just in case) and lying on her hard-as-rock cot when she unfolds the piece of paper. It's coarse like the calluses of her fingers, and Mackenzie finds herself absently rubbing the black letters inked on its surface.

The weak glow of an oil lamp on her bedside crate doesn't illuminate much, but a bit of squinting does wonders and Mackenzie can finally discern the scrawled handwriting... and a logo drawn in the bottom corner. A logo she used to wear on a slip of cloth tied around a bicep.

That night, she falls asleep with a genuine smile for the first time in years.

* * *

 25/12/2288

resignation is death, life is revolt

you'll know when it happens

at a minute's notice

* * *

 

> _December 2288_
> 
> _Nuka-Town, Nuka-World_

William still hasn't arrived.

Mags worries. Despite what her outward expression may show, it's her default state and it's served her well. Showing weakness is as good as inviting jealous rivals to slip poison in her morning glass of wine.

She's spent the last hour pacing in their emergency rendezvous, her silent brooding interrupted only by the sporadic bursts of gunfire in the distance. Her location is known only to the three of them - now two, she realises with a twinge - and if there's anything she can feel now it's the four walls of the room and its peeling wallpaper seemingly caving in on her to flatten her.

William is never late. And given the situation gripping Nuka-Town, Mags certainly regrets sending him off alone.

That's why she vaults out of the window to land on the roof of a building five blocks from Fizztop Grille, in a district long abandoned by Nuka-World's denizens due to its dizzying state of disrepair. Cracked windows and rickety brick 'n' mortar characterises those buildings, making the area perfect for a safehouse off the grid and unnoticed by everyone else. Least of all the other gangs.

Her chest plate is bulky and restricts her mobility, but she gracefully lands on the ground sans the bruises of a bad fall, even when she's wearing her black dress shoes. Style isn't something Operators compromise on - she's partial to the bowtie on her chestplate. Deep down, Mags acknowledges that it's a relic of her upper-class heritage, and that's the base of why Nisha despises her. She expected no less from a farmhand turned raider out of coercion.

Anyhow, rifle out, she sprints off like a deathclaw's on her tail.

Mags passes Operators gunning down Disciples in every other street, and avoids those where the Disciples have them cornered and up close. She doesn't remember where exactly she is, or how far she's from Fizztop Grille; only that the one instance she speeds past a T-junction in an alleyway without checking her flank, she's grabbed by the neck and shoulders into the dark.

"Sh-" Mags struggles and swears, jabbing her elbows backwards and sticking her leg behind her to tangle up the footsteps of her assailant. But pressure's applied on her still-sore shoulder and she's powerless to stop her rifle from being knocked from her grasp; it clatters to the floor agonisingly slow in front of her.

Then, Mags is twirled and is slammed against the wall, the impact of brick and metal and flesh and bone rattling her teeth and she's irrevocably drawn to the blade of a knife pressing - no, _quivering_ \- against the the skin of her neck.

She's panting, chest rising and falling, but strains against the body that flattens her against the wall - spikes and metal pieces poking painfully into her chestplate - and her blood doesn't run cold until her gaze flicks up to focus on the eyes staring murder at her.

Mags hasn't seen her without her mask before, but somehow, Mags just _knows_ those dark irises and blood smeared across the darker skin of her face belongs to the last person she'll ever want to meet. And that person is an idle flick of the wrist away from slitting Mags' throat.

"You _will_ pay, Mags Black." Nisha curls her lips around every syllable that ends in a terrifying sneer, her breath hot on Mags' cheek. "I will make little cuts on _every_ inch of your skin and watch you scream as the blood leaves your veins. And I will heal the cuts as much as I'll open them and you'll _never._ _Stop._ _Suffering_."

Already, Mags feels the sting of a cut on her neck; one from the same knife digging into her skin. Her limbs are clamming up with fear - not like she can dislodge them from behind her back anyway - and it's as if she's being swallowed whole by the ravenous sensations of stress and emotions bucking her.

Though her customary haughtiness is gone, Mags thinks it a miracle that she can speak. Even if she's exposing herself by revealing how confused she is. "Pray tell, what have I inflicted on you again?"

Nisha shoves Mags against the wall once, but _harder_ \- enough for Mags to yelp in pain. " _Dixie._ _Savoy_." Nisha spits out every word. " _You_ ordered hits on everyone important to me and y-"

" _Nisha_." Mags is still shuddering under Nisha's body flattening her against the wall, still fixated on Nisha's face warped by unspeakable grief under the veneer of anger - but she's managed to grab the Disciple boss' left forearm to snatch her attention. "You think we Operators are this sloppy? Killing everyone but coincidentally not you?"

"You fools are obsessed with your hair. Only a circus troupe does that." Nisha presses down harder, but Mags fears she can't hold Nisha off any longer; her limbs already burn from the effort.

"Lizzie's dead," Mags blurts as a keening pain erupts on her neck. "And William likely is too."

Nisha's bloodshot eyes widen. Stumped, she eases - _marginally_ \- the pressure on Mags' neck, and Mags seizes the chance to jump in. "Someone ordered hits for mine, too."

It backfires. " _Bullshit._ Why should I believe you, you _spoiled_ little princess?" The surprise is replaced by previous anger. "Your tongue lies as easily as you betray others for _caps._ In fact, your shit-for-brains brother might be lining up a shot this instant, but you're blocking him."

Mags is aware of what Nisha's alluding to; to a time when the Operators were a small outfit just starting out, to a time when Sledge was recently - brutally - removed from his position. The time when Mags had betrayed a contract - or promise? _Semantics_ \- for a thousand caps.

A promise broken that might sink that knife further into Mags' neck.

"Nisha." She'll never apologise for it, Mags thinks, as she rasps out her last chance to live. Even if it kills her. " _Look at me_ -" Nisha's eyes snap to hers "-and tell me honestly that you can't see me grieving. Show me that you're better than the trashpiles that the other Operators think you are. That my faith in you wasn't misplaced."

It's a secret not even William's aware of: her positive regard for Nisha has long moved beyond the professional. She empathises with her. And that's why no one can know.

Until now.

Mags brazenly stares back at Nisha's frenzied eyes, flecks of red streaking into the white, measuring the silence passing between them with the droplets of sweat dripping down her brow, droplets of blood dripping down her neck. Even now, Mags doesn't see a psychopath. Mags sees someone who hasn't asked for this life of kill or be killed - unlike herself. Her very life hinges on reaching the person who existed before the raider currently pining her against the wall.

But Nisha's affect remains unchanged. Her heavy breathing, and her trembling fury, too.

Ten drips.

The knife presses in again.

Mags closes her eyes with a sigh.

Another _shove_ , th-

" _Fuck._ " Mags lands on her arm, but there isn't the tell-tale _crack_ of a fracture - just the shooting pain in unmoving limbs forcibly reintroduced to motion. But she's alive, and not spilling her blood all over the ground; a fact she's grateful for.

"Who is it?" Nisha looms over Mags with the darkest of expressions, blocking Mags' view of the sky; knife in hand, blood trickling along and _off_ its sharpened edge. Looking exactly like any harbinger of death. " _Who is it?_ "

Mags' skin crawls where the blood lands.

"I don't know." Mags stands as best as she can with dead legs - jerkily, it seems - and she pushes Nisha away from her with a glare. When Nisha snarls, Mags frowns. Then, Mags immediately begins to wipe away the blood on her neck. "What I _do_ know is that someone's idiotic enough to mess with Nuka-World's gangs."

"Finally. Something we agree on," Nisha grumbles. "I thought Mason would be lesson enough for any shitheads foolish enough to try jockeying for more power. No one's there," Nisha adds, when she notices Mags check the surrounding rooftops for people with a swivel of her head.

Mags grunts, miffed at being outsmarted. She grabs her rifle from where it fell and cocks it forcefully - no, _petulantly_. "That may be so," Mags drawls.

Almost unanimously, they duck inside the nearest building with Nisha in the lead - but not before Mags volleys back with a "And keep your voice down."

Nisha's resulting snort doesn't feel out of place between them. For the first time in a while, Mags feels safe around the Disciple boss - and not because they've kissed and made up. Far from it. They just have no reason to kill each other.

For now.

"I'm waiting for you to me with your amazing deductions," Nisha deadpans, when they've made a bedroom their temporary refuge. While Mags is settled on a couch, glass of wine in hand - amazingly, abandoned houses still had stocked liquor cabinets - Nisha paces from end to end, twirling her knives between her fingers. All the curtains are drawn, and the only source of light filters in from the open door.

"How impatient," Mags snipes, hoping to mask her fear. Much to her annoyance, she can't suppress her hand jitters that prevent her from holding her glass properly; the wine swirling so obviously. She can't find cigarettes in the room, and she's smoked the last stick from her personal stash hours ago, minutes after storing Lizzie in deep freeze. Though nicotine calms her better than the liquid, alcohol would unfortunately have to suffice. She'd rather swallow turpentine than appear weak in front of Nisha. "It's an inside job. Someone sold us out and let them in. My only question is, who?"

"I absolutely _wasn't_ aware of that possibility, Mags. That wasn't why I suspected you at all."

"Here I thought you had more brains than Mason," Mags rebukes smoothly, before sipping at her wine. Nisha whips around to face the blonde, livid, even after Mags explains further. "Obviously, either of us didn't do it, because both our essential members are dead. So it's a gang outside of Nuka-World. Notice the new faces around in our ranks these few weeks? It's them we should be focusing on."

"But what gang would have the spine to launch a coup? What gang has insider information about Nuka-World to execute a flawless operation that strikes at our weak points?" Nisha says all that in a crescendo that culminates in a pointed look that demands Mags' complete attention. "Mags, _do you understand what I'm saying?_ "

"Of course," Mags grinds out. Nisha needs to _stop_ interrupting her before she uses her rifle's stock to smack her. "We failed to clean house thoroughly enough. And now, we suffer the consequences. Regardless, where's the Overboss? She should've attempted to contact us by now."

Come to think of it, that fact is a tad puzzling. Perhaps even unsettling.

"It's not just a gang, Mags. It's an _organisation._ " The frenzied look graces Nisha's expression again, matching the desperation creeping into her voice. By now, Nisha's standing an arm's length away... and lesser by the word. "Who else would have access to such resources and intelligence? And have the expertise to put it all together?"

Mags furrows her brows, her consternation mounting. She's clearly looked over something in rationalising the events of the past few hours, but for the life of her, she can't pin it down - but _Nisha_ has, infuriatingly.

Mags' silence has Nisha shaking her head, then, releasing a defeated sigh that strangely wounds Mags. "Great. You don't see it."

"Nisha. Speak plainly. What are you trying to say?"

"That I'm the cause of this catastrophic fuckfest, and she's absolutely correct."

It's as if they've been petrified - Nisha inches away from Mags' face, looking down at a clearly confused Operator boss. Their eyes now dart downwards, afraid of glancing to the source of the voice that they recognise. There's no way they can't, not when it's from a person who snatched them out of stagnation and up into rip-roaring success in terrorising the Commonwealth. The person who cheerily sent Mason to hell with a simple snap of his neck along to the tune of some Pre-War song she was humming back then.

When they do, they see the Overboss, and she's pointing her pistol at Nisha with a face-splitting grin.

_Bang._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> topmost line of the note is an anarchist quote by Albert Libertad, because my sole survivor's a chaotic good ... well, mostly. on her good days. which isn't often.


	5. Chapter 5

>   _November 2288_
> 
> _Unnamed location, Commonwealth_

_Crunch_.

Gage comes to with soreness branding his nerves; all over and with no discernible cause. He remembers rushing to Fizztop Grille bearing troubling news, then, a knock to the back of his head sent him straight to oblivion.

And now, he's tied to a chair with duct tape over his mouth and he wonders why his captors felt the need to blindfold him.

 _Crunch_.

Damn him if he still can't recognise that sweet stench of cereal anywhere, because while he hasn't eaten a single piece, he's seen enough boxes of it around to be sick of seeing it with his one working eye. If only they were actual bombs he could throw at everyone else - isn't that what Vault creations were like? Innocent on the surface, terrifying once you peek under the hood.

Footsteps sound, closer by the step. Boots, Gage thinks, the way the thudding of footfalls are muffled on the plank floor. And they're in an enclosed room, probably underground, with how sound echoes. And that makes his captor Brotherhood? Railroad? No way the Minutemen will pull off a stunt like this. Bunch o' boy scouts don't kidnap wastelanders for any reason, not even if those wasters are raiders. The Institute? It ain't exist if he can't see it.

Still, wherever they're from, that someone _rips_ the tape off his mouth and Gage yelps in pain.

Lips stinging, Gage wheezes from the rush of air to his system. It's more disorienting this time, 'cause the blindfold's still on and he can't see shit. "Overboss?" is what he manages before coughing again, the coppery taste in his mouth foul and enough to make him gag. Fuck. "That you?"

Honestly, if she's also trussed up in this damn room, Nuka-World's probably going to shit.

"You could say that. But I never was."

It's her voice alright, interrupted by periodic chewing of her _fucking_ cereal. Silken smooth but razor-sharp in a way that turns Gage on at times - but now, being on the receiving end puts everything into perspective. And by that, he means a terrifying downer.

But why? "Hold up, Boss. What's goin' on? I get the feeling I've been kept out of the loop."

Adrián barks out in laughter, ringing strident and true Gage knows he's just tripped head-first into serious shit, because that ain't the laughter of someone who's been abducted and tied down to a chair. (Maybe she is, 'cause she's two screws away from becoming a complete nutcase, but hell if he knows). Why couldn't their captors rip off his blindfold too?

This isn't good. This isn't good at all. He needs to escape and warn the rest of the bosses tha-

Oh. They'll kill him anyway. Nisha will start by lopping off his ears.

" _Ha._ " Gage hears a metal bowl clinking against a woodtop surface. "I thought you were dense, but I didn't think you were _this_ dense. Of-fucking-course you are. You're here because I took you here."

 _Fuck_ , Gage thinks, sickly smell of cereal stronger now. And no way in hell she's actually tied down in a chair now. _Fuck, fuck, fu-_

"And I'm gonna kill you."

Gage thinks he might die of fright first. On instinct, he strains against his bounds. They're tight, and he's only managed to bruise his wrists. "Shit, boss. What's up with this? At least take off my blindfold so I can see you when you torch my world to cinders."

"Maybe." A pause - Gage thinks she's making that expression she adores, face dead but eyes deader, before it lights up with twisted glee and a mangled smile. "Okay. We are decent, civilised people after all."

The shriek of tearing cloth, and Gage squints hard at the sudden unforgiving light. "I appreciate you not using a sack over my head," he says, as Adrián wraps the blindfold around her finger. "Hard to breathe and all that."

Gage feels the chill in his bones, yet Adrián wears nothing more than a sack of a shirt over a leather harness. She's sitting on the table, legs swinging in the air like a kid. And she grins. " _Sayang_ , I don't want you to asphyxiate and die before I'm done having fun with you. It'd be _such_ a waste."

The last time she called him that, it was during those lazy moments after they fucked on the roof of the Observatory; on a blanket, with some vodka, and a hell lot of time. To hear her call him that, after what they've done? Gage has nothing to say to that. In fact, what the _hell_ is he supposed to say? Thinking about the possibilities has his head spinning far too much for someone held hostage.

He clears his throat. "So uh. How did we come to this, again? You wanting to kill me, and - should I say - the rest of Nuka-World's gangs?"

"You actually think I changed my mind over these months. _While_ I was Overboss." She swoops towards him, face hovering inches away from his until Gage smells the _fucking_ hint of Sugar Bombs on her breath, even more than the tobacco breath she's supposed to have. "Don't act cute. It won't save you. Or maybe you're as blur as I thought you _couldn't_ be..." She tilts her head, short pink hair falling to a side. "Pity. You're meaty in the wrong places too."

Adrián boops a kiss to Gage's nose - Gage recoils at the unwelcome touch - before sauntering away to toss the blindfold she held at a table; a table where a bowl of cereal stood tall over rusted metal instruments of some kind.

Then, the meaning of them sinks in like jaws.

If Gage isn't reeling from the knowledge that his world was crashing and burning before, he is now. Raiders don't cry; raiders lash out and destroy - but this time, the only thing getting destroyed is him.

"You haven't been paying attention, Gage. I wanna burn it all down. _All._ " She picks up a pistol magazine on the table and starts loading it, bullet by bullet, the movement of her fingers fluid and economical. _Natural_. "Despite what your astoundingly arrogant mind might whisper to you, you're not special."

It's at those cutting words that Gage finally musters the courage to look up and at Adrián's face, eyes hidden behind eyeglasses reflecting light. And her stare is frigid. "Did you ever love me?"

Adrián looks at Gage as if he's sprouted an extra limb. When that doesn't happen, she flings her hands up in resignation. "See, I never understood why people fixate themselves on answers to questions like that." A forceful cock of her gun, her flicking off the safety - almost in _annoyance_ \- and she stalks towards him, malicious intent colouring her mismatched eyes. "That can't help you now. Therefore, useless."

Gage tries to ignore the pinpricks of blood spattering the hem of Adrián's baby blue jacket. "At least be decent enough to let a dead man know."

It's a plea. He's too proud to ever beg, but here he is. Minutes from possible death and wishing to know if his happiest moments had been real.

"Can't believe a _raider_ is pleading for civility," Adrián crows triumphant, before quieting to mull her words. "Sure, the sex was phenomenal, but my _sociopathic heart_ -" a roll of her eyes "-according to you, already belongs to someone else." She pushes her eyeglasses back up her nose with her middle finger for emphasis, lenses rattling, but all Gage is aware of is the sensation of his chest crushing itself. "Hilariously enough, I was never opposed to an open relationship. Which only reflects on you."

She presses the barrel flat on Gage's forehead. "Sorry. Raiders are next on my shit list, after the Brotherhood and the Institute."

The pistol barrel is cold to his skin. Just like her.

Gage sighs. "Who's the lucky guy?"

Adrián shakes her head slowly, disappointingly. "Wrong, Gage. You're _always_ wrong."

Gage shuts his eyes, counting the heartbeats slamming against his ribs. This isn't how he planned to die; it's too soon, too humiliating. But can he do shit about it? Fuck no. Fuck _everything_.

He's _fucked_.

With a smirk, Adrián pulls the trigger.

It clicks.

Gage spits out the breath he's bitten down, more relieved than livid at being played at, but he misses the elbow launched square in his face.

Adrián makes a noise of contempt as Gage slumps unconscious, blood trickling out of his fractured nose. "You don't deserve to know her, _buto_."

She chuckles as she checks her pistol, noting how the safety catch is still set to safe. How she deliberately deceived Gage with the illusion of a quick death. Because a raider boss deserves far less.

Flinging her pistol at the table, she picks up a fistful of Sugar Bombs and flicks them into her mouth one by one as she settles herself back on the table. Legs still swinging like a kid, munching on cereal without a care in an underground bunker a couple miles northeast of Graygarden. A bunker whose walls are lined with shelves after shelves of workshop tools and components. Or, what Piper had blurted out once in horror, torture devices.

Personally, Adrián prefers _persuasion implements_. And she itches to use the blowtorch; her _favourite_.

With a clean finger, she activates the walkie on the table with a press of a button. It crackles to life. "Package neutralised," she reports, nonchalant. "Popping Bottles is a go."

How many body parts have to be snipped, twisted, or burnt before Gage howls out the secrets of Nuka-World? The more resistant her former second is, the _better_ \- the thought of it tingling her nerves in anticipation.

And what way to start it but with a bang? She'll start with Gage's kneecaps.

* * *

 

> _December 2288_
> 
> _Operator Safehouse, Nuka-World_

" _Ah!_ " Nisha yells, dropping to the floor like a sack of tarberries while clutching her leg. Blood oozes out of two perfectly-shaped holes on the side of her thigh, as wide as the 9mm bullets that feed Adrián's favourite silencer pistol. Nisha presses both hands over the holes with a hiss, the blood leaking through her gloved fingers to soak everything in red and Mags knows, _knows_ with a heavy heart that the bullets have severed a major blood vessel, or something close to it.

To that, Adrián has a sing-song response and a shrug. "Oops. Didn't mean to hit your femoral artery. Just wanted to incapacitate you, is all. But then again-" she winks "-I _never_ miss."

Nisha returns that with a bared snarl.

Mags doesn't move beyond shifting her body to face Adrián. Her rifle's propped against the sofa beside her, but it's crystal clear to her that the moment she reaches for it, the Overboss would've put two between Mags' eyes without hesitation.

Mags settles for a tight smile that's challenging to maintain, considering Nisha's pained groans beside her. "Overboss. We were just talking about you."

A bark of laughter sounds from Adrián before she sashays deeper inside the room, her booted footsteps shaking the wood floor. It's a split-second decision for Adrián to flop bonelessly onto the sofa across them and cross her legs, giving off the distinct impression that they're gathered here just for casual talk over booze and cigarettes, like those nights at Fizztop Grille. There's even wine on the table between them, but Adrián doesn't pour herself a glass. Crass.

Rummaging in her pocket, the Overboss whips out - and Mags _flinches_ \- a badly-crushed pack of cigarettes with her free hand and offers it to Mags, butts out. "Grey Tortoise, your favourite. An undamaged pack, too. From Vault triple one." She winks. "My treat."

Adrián doesn't stop smiling. Nor does she stop tapping the trigger guard of her pistol. For fuck's sake, _she doesn't stop smiling_ and that chills Mags the most - enough to give her pause, and to conspicuously swallow in a bid to reassure herself.

It doesn't help.

"I take that as a no." Adrián pouts, and Mags struggles to process the blithe disappointment she hears - and the subsequent courtesy of Adrián turning to the Disciple boss with an apologetic smile. "I'd offer you some, Nisha, since it helps take the sting off getting shot, but you're gonna bleed out anyway. So, not worth it. Sorry." Adrián adds the apology as an afterthought, and there's no way in hell that statement had been sincere. Not when Adrián lazily stuffs the packet of cigarettes back into her pants pocket, before seeing the need to pick at her nails to remove whatever dirt that's lodged themselves underneath.

"Fuck. You." Nisha tries spitting, but it comes out slurred. Her face is pale, even when her skin tone is as dark as the wood furnishings of the Parlour. Now, it's shades lighter; framing eyes that steadily lose focus.

Death will claim the Disciple boss any moment now. Nisha's barely keeping herself upright. Much to her surprise, Mags feels pity _for her compatriot_ , and not at the fact that she's lost a body she can shield herself with.

Mags catches herself. She needs to escape.

"I'm disappointed." Adrián commands attention back on her with a tut. "Especially in _you,_ Mags. A year or more of digging for my personal history, yet you couldn't piece together the threat I was. And _still_ is. I was a Vault Dweller, but you should've fixated on what I was before that."

Mags is strangely transfixed by Adrián rolling a cigarette between her fingers. The orange of a cigarette butt clashes with the white of her bandaged knuckles - but not for long, as Adrián lights it up with a clink of her lighter and takes a drag.

"We found nothing before 2076." Mags admits quietly, like disclosing a shameful secret. They've never stopped searching - her, William and Lizzie - but much to her eternal frustration, no amount of poking around in the ruins of Pre-War Boston for still-working terminals could reveal the Overboss' personal history. "It's as if you never existed before that."

Only now, does Mags wonder if _Adrián Valenti_ even exists. Only now, does Mags wonder about the sheer ridiculousness of her current predicament: deliberating on the existence of certain personalities when _her_ existence will surely be snuffed out by the end of the day.

"Aah." A self-satisfied smirk passes Adrián's expression between clouds of smoke. "That's what I like to hear. I'm glad my actions still matter centuries later."

Why _are_ they still chatting over wine and cigarettes, anyway? Surely the Overboss isn't foolish enough to idle time away during such a delicate operation, unless-

Unless she thinks Nuka-World's gangs have truly lost.

No matter. Accurate or otherwise, it simply buys Mags some time before her people bail her out of her current predicament.

"Mags, that frown doesn't suit your gorgeous face. I didn't know I was such terrible company."

 _Why are you stalling?_ Mags means to ask the Overboss, as Mags looks to Nisha out of the corner of her eye; the dying woman struggling to keep heavy-lidded eyes open, but blood isn't gushing out of her wounds any longer. Instead, "How did you disappear?"

"I deleted my service records. Every single one. I didn't exist in federal records due to my...profession, so what remained were records in hit squad companies and other private interests. They went inexplicably missing a few weeks lat-"

Gunshots tear through the tense atmosphere. Splinters fly all over and prick Mags' cheek; her discomfort a fleeting thought as she watches a bullet graze Adrián's cheek and shoot her hat off her head, before the Overboss rolls off the couch and upturns the coffee table like a shield, sending the wine glassware shattering to the floor in a whirl of red liquid.

That's all Mags notices, because the moment the firing began, she catapults off her seat and smashes herself out of the window amidst shattered shards and ripped fabric.

She lands in a dumpster with a _crash_.

Mags scrabbles to tip herself out over the edge; bones creaking from effort, dust sliding off her like a waterfall. Thankfully, it's filled with newspapers and cigarettes, and she'll take dry rubbish over sticky, wet crap that'll mess up her hair for the next few weeks.

Hearing nothing, Mags scans her surroundings to ensure she's not being followed. She pats down her armour to swipe off the dust - can't hurt to do it, she has time - before sprinting off without a direction in mind.

She needs a gun and reinforcements, and she's going to _murder_ Adrián.

But where's William?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _sayang_ = dear, love; a term of endearment for loved ones  
>  _buto_ = dick


	6. Chapter 6

> _December 2288_
> 
> _Operator Safehouse, Nuka-World_

Mags escaping hadn't taken Adrián by surprise, but that she'd done it with literal _bangs_? Adrián thought Mags didn't have that in her. The Operators had style, sure - just not when it comes to creative, destructive expression. Unfortunately. Guns were so ancient, and persuasion gas infuriatingly Pre-War.

"Pity," Adrián mumbles, hand pulling the curtain back a sliver. Even when hobbling away, Mags injects such grace and poise into the act that Adrián finds herself feeling jealous.

"I kn- knew it."

Adrián doesn't turn instantly at her voice, choosing to watch till Mags slips around a corner and out of sight before letting the curtain swish back to cover the window. Nisha looks... _alive_ , for someone with a severed artery. Skin still retaining a modicum of colour, lips not completely blue yet. Nisha glares at Adrián with nothing but unfiltered _hate_ in her expression pinched by pain, and Adrián thinks it's the greatest compliment Nisha's ever given her.

What better way to reflect a snipe with another snipe? "I thought you bled out completely few minutes ago."

"No. Spite sustains me, and I-" A pause; Nisha's eyes lose focus momentarily "-I'm stubborn. No. I want to know something before you kill me."

"I'd have thought you wanted to flay me alive instead." Her slouch hat forgotten, Adrián drops to her knees in front of the Disciple Boss, taking in her appearance and slowly uttered words; her frame collapsing with every word. For a fleeting moment, the urge to tuck Nisha's wayward strands of hair behind her ears surfaces. It vanishes when Nisha locks gazes with her.

It's not fury Adrián sees; it's _fear_.

Of what?

"But anything for you, _sayang_ ," Adrián teases softly - but there's no venom in it. And then, she finds herself doing the impossible; not out of a real desire of care, but courtesy.

Nisha doesn't flinch when Adrián brushes her hair to the sides with her fingers, feeling the leather of the Overboss' fingerless gloves drag against her skin. There's no strength left in her beyond clinging stubbornly to life. "Did you ask for this life that you live?"

A question that whizzes straight through Adrián's heart like a bullet. She'd expected anything else - vehemence was expected, confusion was normal, but commiseration?

It takes Adrián a while to spur her brain and mouth to action. Adrián shakes her head, just a fraction, feeling the surge of anger inside her. _I did not._ "I don't care."

Nisha searches Adrián's expression, only to settle on the tic in Adrián's jaw.

Nisha's entire frame tenses. " _Liar_. You didn't. Just like me."

Adrián doesn't know how much time ticks by; Nisha holds her gaze throughout and she doesn't intend on being the first to surrender, not even to a dying woman. But she isn't ignorant enough to deny that Nisha's question has left her shaking on the inside.

She didn't ask for this life, but she sure _as hell_ asked for the chance to murder everyone who tossed her in it.

Nisha blinks first; lapsing unconscious for a brief moment before swiping at Adrián's chest to grab her shirt, hanging off her like a yao-guai latched on its prey. Whatever Adrián expected to happen after Mags fled, it certainly wasn't this. It's unsettling.

"I don't want to die alone." Adrián registers that Nisha spoke far later than her usual; an unacceptable delay.

In a twisted reversal of roles, Nisha's turned from an unwilling dance partner to one leading Adrián to trip all over her steps, and Adrián's mind short-fires on all circuits trying to deduce why.

_Que te joden._ Fuck you. It's a sentiment Adrián wants to tattoo on her forehead and on Nisha's eyeballs. With a blowtorch. "You won't," Adrián promises.

Nisha smiles - but for a dying woman, it's just the marginal quirk of her lips. It sickens Adrián, sickens her that she's allowing herself to feel something for someone lower than scum.

Adrián pries Nisha's hand off her shirt like it's hands from a Glowing One, and eases the woman to lie flat on the floor with the tenderness of handling a pin-less grenade. Against her better judgement, Adrián doesn't withdraw her hand gingerly wrapped around Nisha's clammy one - she tried earlier, but Nisha squeezed it tight. Adrián's better off leaving it there; Nisha's dead soon, anyway.

"Thank you," Nisha barely voices, eyes glazing over.

Adrián exhales when the hand in hers goes dead and heavy. She doesn't drop it; doesn't _move_ , in fact, still processing whatever the _fuck_ happened after Mags escaped in an explosion of glass.

Adrián hears the chatter of guns and the boom of explosives in the distance; sounds as foreign to her as her thirst for vengeance. They thrum the air she breathes, shaking the wood of the house she's in down to the grain. She takes comfort in that; the only sensations make sense to her. Anything save for the deadweight in her hands.

It's not footsteps that sound behind her, but the erratic breathing of someone who tried and failed to keep silent. Or a person who never bothered to.

"V. You alright?"

Adrián releases Nisha's hand. "Completely, Deacon."

* * *

All Mags can process this instant is _where's William?_

She's been checking their usual haunts all over Nuka-Town; dodging firefights in alleys and Disciple members stalking the shadows but his face isn't amongst the faces frozen in death, nor those animated with life. Some Operators give her shifty looks and Mags is struck by how unfamiliar they are. Gone are the times when she personally knew every member wearing Operator colours.

At this rate, she's willing to forego resistance to Adrián in favour of grabbing William and fleeing Nuka-World to restrategize. Fucking Overboss played them, yanking on their chains as if they're Brahmin with a ring pierced through their noses - so it's only courteous of her return the favour.

"Going somewhere?"

Mags whips her head around just in time to _duck_ , bullets whizzing where her head used to be. She can't see her shooter - she can certainly _hear_ them - but Mags takes off in a zigzag as more shots rake up the ground she runs. The Overboss is a psycho, two screws loose, a brain away from being just like one of Mason's feral dogs. Incidentally, Mags _hates_ beasts. Beasts deserve to be put down with a bullet through their brain.

She turns a corner into an alley. Dead end. Two doors flank her on her sides and she dashes into the right one, door dangling off its frame and a wind's gust away from being ripped off its hinges. Inside isn't much better; just another dilapidated Nuka-Town house, battered by centuries of nuclear fallout. Mags can't find an unblocked exit to another street - the only door she sees is has stacks of cupboards crammed into the frame - so she heads up the stairs. Maybe roof jumping might throw off the Overboss and whoever's out to get her.

But where's William?

She gets her answer when she passes an open door just past the stairs.

It's not the stench that gets her. It's the flash of a bowtie, normally plain black, now in garish yellow and black spots that drags her to William's side and wrenches a sob from her throat.

He's gone. His hands are clammy in hers, heavy with the weight of rigor mortis. William's _gone_. And Mags, Mags wants to be, too - _after_ she eviscerates the ones responsible.

"Mags."

The Operator boss springs to her feet and spins around while drawing the pistol she scavenged to point it at the sudden visitor.

But Adrián shoots first. Point blank.

Mags catches the round in her pistol arm and her gut. She hates the way reflex has her scream in pain as she staggers back, pistol clattering uselessly to the floor. Another round as Adrián closes in, and Mags feel her right leg fold from under her. Another round, and Mags' left goes numb from a gunshot wound, and she tumbles to the floor in a bundle of agony.

"Nisha thought knives were better at inflicting pain." Adrián _tsk_ -ed. " _Buto_ clearly wasn't imagining hard enough like I do."

Pain paralyses Mags' mind. Both her kneecaps had been shot clean, and that's all that stares back at her as she writhes on the floor.

"Can't run, can't hide, _sayang_. I'm always the last thing in your ears before you cease to be." Adrián purrs as she circles Mags, cocking her gun for effect. "You fucks should've worn kneeguards but instead, you had to wear plaid."

Mags' pistol is right there. Within grabbing distance of her uninjured right hand. The pain makes her bite her tongue to stifle her moans, but maybe-

Adrián kicks away the pistol with a fearsome grin. "No touchy-touchy, Mags." Then, she _stomps_ on Mags' wrist. An ugly crack, and finally, Mags shrieks; a hysterical sound that masks her tears, because she's helpless and violated and going to die. There's no way a Black can escape this. No one to swoop in and rescue her - not William, not Lizzie, not random Operators.

They're all dead. Mags saw the bodies on her way here.

"I love making people scream." Adrián squats beside Mags. "Doesn't matter if we're fucking or shooting each others' brains out."

A grin. "Or _both_."

Mags drags herself to look up at her tormentor. This is the face of a woman she underestimated; thinking her unhinged personality was all to her, only to miss the chilling rationality underpinning her seeming unpredictability. Flashy hair, mismatched eyes, enough impulsiveness to rival a petulant brat. A fucking _facade_.

"Surprised you have nothing to say, _sayang_. The Mags I know oozes derision. Arrogance. Enough to underestimate me."

" _Psht_." Mags spits. Saliva splatters on Adrián's face and the woman shuts her eyes. "Shank- Shank will gut you. Someone will."

But Adrián smiles. Has been, but this time, it grows. "You haven't met my friends. Especially one whose life's been fucked over by raiders."

Adrián towers over her, devilish grin splitting her face, before one last _flash_ -

Mags dies; dead before her body crashes to the floor beside her brother. Bullet to the forehead, a clean hole 9mm wide, with blood trickling out in a neat line to the floor. It drips into an already expanding pool of blood, soaking the wood floors down to the grain.

Adrián holsters her gun and walks out to the balcony. She lights a cigarette with a match, Grey Tortoise and centuries old, before tugging the rim of her hat down out of habit. She considers standing, but drags a rusted barstool over instead, before settling comfortably to witness how the Nuka-Town gangs are gunned down in the streets by "Operators" and "Disciples". Snacking on Sugar Bombs would complete the experience, but she settles for slow drags of vodka from her flask - as if she isn't sharing the same air as dead bodies, still warm and mixed-up with their own gore.

Because she's done this before.

Blood in the air, ash in her nostrils. Gunfire in her ears, raging violence in her soul. This is what quietens the listlessness in her limbs.

She's a saviour.

She's a monster.

And she's sated.


	7. Chapter 7

 

> _December 2288_
> 
> _Croup Manor, Boston Airport_

He's been receiving troubling reports these days. Not just from his sources _outside_ Nuka-World, but _inside_ too.

Probably everyone - him included - felt that after Mason, things would settle for a bit. The gangs and the Overboss returning to some semblance of normality, however normal a raider's life can be; tightening supply links and reinstating chain of command. Operators and Disciples talked about filling their ranks with fresh-faced greenhorns and refurbishing their inventory - that's why he's been receiving ridiculous requests for equipment from either. But a fixer's got to do what fixers do, and he's the best in the Commonwealth.

"Hey. Heard anything from Spike and Kent?"

"No." Shank doesn't look up from his reports splayed across the desk. The ledgers aren't adding up. "Something wrong?"

"They've missed their hourly radio check-in. Not sure if it's cause to worry but it's strange of 'em. Pair of paranoidest bastards I've ever known."

Not only the ledgers then. Something's just not quite right about the past few days. Shipments getting lost, raids thwarted by Minutemen patrols, confusing news from Nuka-World. And now, missing guards?

"You think they've been killed." Shank appraises the Operator before him, ridiculous done-up hair and pressed pants gaudy to his rumpled trench coat and oily hair hidden under a fedora. Stan, Shank recalls his name - good shot and a bleeding optimist, but terrifyingly naive. Bright eyes and an easy smile give him away as a greenhorn. Kid can't be more than what, twenty one? Gangs seems to be accepting anyone these days. Sloppy.

Operators ooze class and decorum, but anyone who's planted their flag in Nuka-Town isn't remotely close to that. Dressing up a raider can't stop 'em from being one. At least the Disciples are honest about it.

"Yeah. Just letting you know before I wander topside around the cliffs. You should be safe down here." Stan makes a face before he climbs the stairs. "Still don't get why you've set up shop in humble Croup here, of all places in the 'wealth. Can't smell naught but piss and damp paper."

 _Humble_ Croup, a place Shank himself had refurbished to befit its new status as his base of operations in the Commonwealth. And here, this upstart's acting as if his white, baby ass knew more than him. "Because there's a shitload of paper in this basement, kid. And this manor's right beside the coast."

The next few seconds happen in a blink. Shank grabs the sawed-off shotgun under his desk and aims it square at Stan. The kid yelps and jumps - as expected, Shank sighs to himself. At this rate, either the kid squares up or his next - or first real - firefight will kill him.

Stan edges slowly towards the door on the right, his movements resembling a stiff board bending to splinters under pressure. "Shank, hey. _Hey_. What's with the gun?"

"I keep telling you kid, you talk too much. And underestimating people." Shank tips his gun at the door. "Anyone coming in will chew a mouthful of lead."

"Right, boss. Got it. Will be back soon." Kid doesn't so much as babble and blink before bolting out the door. Dust sprinkles from the ceiling as the door slams shuts on its frame.

* * *

 

The only source of light emanates from the fluorescent lights affixed to the ceiling; white and harsh, enough for Shank's eyes to hurt soon after. Black numbers melt into squiggles of ink, and he flicks his pencil away hard enough for it to clatter on the table. Frustrated, Shank moves to the radio in the corner. A twist of knobs and Radio Freedom's classic tunes fill the basement - Shank's tense frame softening as he moves back to his desk. His nerves, however, remain prickly.

It's been hours, but the kid hasn't popped by as promised.

* * *

Shank leaves the basement minutes later.

He tells himself it's for some fresh air, but the shotgun gripped tightly in his left is a sobering weight. A _just in case_.

He circles the manor's perimeter, looking out for footprints in the mud and disturbed grass. Lights a smoke when he climbs the stories of the manor, shotgun out and safety off. A _just in case_.

He finds nothing out of the ordinary. Sun's still up in the sky, so shadows can't hide trespassers behind broken-down walls and blown-open floors. The kid probably found mirelurks to take potshots at. Perhaps together with those two he was supposed to find.

(He forgets that tar and ash mask the metallic tang of blood).

Back inside the basement, Shank resumes poring over his ledgers. This time, he leans his shotgun on his leg, butt up and immediately snatch-able. Something's changed; his nerves are spiking. It's like he's being watched.

He rests a hand on his shotgun's stock.

He _did_ eyeball the basement when he entered it moments before; sweeping his gaze from end to end to ensure he was the only living being in the basement. Only now, did he realise that he'd forgotten to check the store - the room behind him.

There's movement on his right. There's a rustle behind him. He swivels around with his shotgun up, but all he sees is a flash of red-gold hair before a fist slams into his face.

Shank loses consciousness before his body and fedora lands on the floor.

* * *

Shank wakes smelling the putrid reek of gasoline.

Also, he's tied to a chair. Both his legs to either of the chair's front legs, while rope leashes his chest and hands firmly around the backrest. Shank wriggles his arms to jostle the knife hidden up his sleeve - only to realise that he can't feel it in his sleeve.

"Fuck," he says to the empty room, hoping his captors will show themselves. But no one steps out of the shadows.

He doesn't panic, at least, not yet. Not when he sees the sheaf of paper pinned to the wall with a knife.

 _His_ knife.

He squints at the paper, convinced there's more to it, but nothing. A note not signed, nor handwritten. Just two words typed with the blocky letters of a typewriter.

"Nothing personal," Shank reads aloud, eyebrows scrunched together. Then, he rages. "The fuck? This a joke or something?"

That's when he hears the sing-song Irish accent, and the person it belongs to.

"Such atrocious language, you shitehead." A familiar woman steps into view from behind some filing cabinets, baseball bat in hand. Shank can't drag his gaze away from the blood coating the barrel. "Comin' from a raider, I'm not exactly surprised."

His palms are sweating. Shank wriggles in his bounds more violently this time, achieving nothing but a pulled muscle. He recognises her. He recognises the way she holds herself; suppressed anger caged into forceful movement - an observation he'd reserved for the Overboss alone. Now, he wonders if companions eventually adopt the mannerisms of those they grow close to.

He turns his gaze up defiantly at her. "What do you want?"

"You son of a bitch." She smiles, crooked teeth between wild, shoulder-length hair. " _Dead_."

He doesn't see the blows coming. Two swings of the baseball bat later, Shank's yelling out the pain from having both his legs broken from hits to his shins. By now, he can't decide if he's just jizzed in his pants, or sweated too much from the fear.

Chest heaving, Shank can only watch helplessly as the stranger lights a match and tosses it to the floor; the floor that's now covered with winding trails of gasoline, thinner, and fucking _paper_. The whole basement's been trashed. Shelves formerly upright now lie on the floor, bottles and boxes burst open to vomit their contents - of the _flammable_ kind.

"You got thirty seconds, tops," the stranger kindly informs him as she struts back towards the entrance, bat leaning on her shoulder. At the door, she waves at him. Mockingly. "Time you got shanked yerself, mate!"

Shank sits there, petrified and pants soaked, watching the door slam shut - together with the chance of living.

So _this_ is how it feels like to die.

* * *

Cait isn't stupid enough to buy into Adrián's whole raider act.

Also, she can't quite figure out why her... _friends_ \- Garvey especially - threw a hissy-fit when word spread round the Commonwealth that a familiar face had been spotted lordin' over that shit-town to the west. Okay, fine, cause they thought the better of her - her bein' the new bleedin' hero to pop into the wastes, and not the sadistic fiend she becomes at times - but couldn't they have waited a sec before goin' all prissy about it?

Adrián always had a plan. To royally screw up shiteheads daft enough to totter into her way. This time, the Nuka-World gangs did, in trying to muscle into Minutemen territory. As such, Adrián would be ready to fuck 'em up sideways with a vicious grin and a hail of lead with gratuitous violence - just like how Cait loved it.

Fine, Wright had her suspicions. Had to, since they slept with each other anyway. What kinda lovers don't know each other inside out? (Probably the day romance dies; looking at how those two lovebirds can't keep their hands off each other, it's a day that ain't coming anytime soon). But the reporter was a single thought away from seein' Garvey's point before Adrián swaggered into Sanctuary one showery night to completely fuck up their perceptions. Again.

Long story short, Adrián's the reason why Cait's hangin' round some bleedin'-heart, hero types at Croup Manor - fucking _greenhorns_ , the whole lot of 'em - to do what she does best: smokin' out giant rats before stomping 'em under her boots. Or, in this case, roasting them to a crisp in a big, goddamn fire.

"No way he could've survived that," a Minutemen says beside her, and Cait sniffs at his words. Lad thinks she's interested in anything he has to say? Fuckin' hell. This is why she prefers goin' at it alone; just herself and her trusty shotgun. Adrián isn't a people person too, but she's great as hell in dealing with 'em. Not like Cait.

Cait ignores them and the others, more bothered by the creaking of the steps as they descend the stairs to the basement entrance. The closer they get, the stronger the urge to retch, and Cait hitches her scarf up to her nose to dampen the stench. Bad mix of fuel, sulfur, and god-knows-what - and fuck if they know what they'll see in the basement.

The door splinters to pieces with a good kick from the irascible Irishlady. What lies beyond the threshold has Cait gigglin'; seein' the uppity organised-ness of before charred to ash all over. It coats the surfaces in the basement in a thick layer of dust, a layer inevitably disturbed as the group plods deeper into the basement.

Honestly, Cait's here only for one reason - to see raiders burn. Literally. Step one - lightin' 'em up - she's done already, in dropping the lit match hours ago. Step two is in progress: now, they're back to clean up the mess, and check that Shank's truly lived up to his namesake.

It doesn't take long before they've eyeballed the entire place.

Shank? Had he ever existed? All available for show are piles o' ash and not even blackened bones, and that's when Cait knows she's done a bleedin' good job at this. Damn anyone who's ever told her that revenge is fuckin' empty. Now, her shotgun emptied and baseball bat bloodied, Cait's veins thrum with the same sense of electricity like when she pulped the bastard synth mayor for drillin' bullet holes into her best friend.

"Someone's grinning," one of the Railroad agents with them mumbles to break the silence. They're all standin' on the landing in the basement, looking down at the aftermath of a fire that's snuffed out. Admiring their handiwork? Dunno. All Cait's certain of is that she is.

She's too giddy with glee to snark back. "'Cause today's a goddamn good day."


End file.
